


can you see the remnants of your name?

by beanharry



Series: Wilted roses [2]
Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Angst, Australian Open 2018, Established Relationship, M/M, both physical and mental health issues, nothing explicit but it's sort of implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-11 01:24:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13513833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beanharry/pseuds/beanharry
Summary: Rafa fights his body. Roger is there for him, and always will be.Based around Rafa's QF retirement from the Australian Open.





	can you see the remnants of your name?

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there my guys!
> 
> First of all this is NOT A SEQUEL, at least not in a strict sense. It's only another Angst Fest because Rafa has a fucked up body and I have been crying about it for like a week now. I guess it's pretty Dramatic and all that but I can't write happiness it seems, so sorry for that ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> Every mistake is my own, yadda yadda, I hope you guys enjoy! x
> 
> You can still hit me up on tumblr @rafanad, if you want to cry with me.

 

 

 

Roger kisses Rafa’s closed eyelids gently as he trails the back of his hand lightly down from his sharp cheekbones to his jaw. The Spaniard’s hair is slightly matted to his forehead and he clings tightly to Roger, his fist clenching around the material of his shirt even in sleep.

Roger looks down at the man in his arms, and thinks about how unfair life is. He thinks about forgoing everything in exchange of his happiness.

He closes his eyes briefly and nuzzles his nose into Rafa’s soft hair.

 

He doesn’t sleep.

 

 

*

 

 

In Australia, when the night finally settles in the temperature gets more bearable. Roger knows all about the speculations, the theories, the malicious rumours. He shrugs them off - it’s something he learned to live with, something he is used to. He won’t entertain the media with explaining the world of sports to those who clearly have no idea how it works within the industry.

The sky is still blue outside but it’s gradually getting darker and darker by the second even as Roger walks into the living room area of his hotel suite to turn the TV on. His team is not there, except from Severin who is lounging around in one of the sofas, phone in hand but looking half asleep. Roger relishes in the feeling of his toes digging into the soft, thick material of the expensive carpet as he makes his way towards one of the armchairs next to the window. Mirka is staying a few floors down with the kids, and Roger lets out a small laugh (to which Severin raises a questioning eyebrow but Roger just shakes his head smiling) at the thought of her probably talking the boys into eating their dinner with all the vegetables right at this moment. They reached that unfortunate age when everything remotely healthy looking became something to avoid at all cost.

He turns around in search of the remote control and finds it buried under one of Rafa’s soft hoodies on the coach next to him. He snatches it up and finally turns on the TV as he settles back into the delicate cushions and gets comfortable for the evening.

 

 

*

 

 

The thing is, Roger knows a great deal about suffering. He may not be the type to get injured often, sure, but this privilege is something he is constantly aware of. To say that he is ungrateful couldn’t be more far from the truth. Well, at least in recent years. He got older, he matured as time flied past by him. Besides, getting a taste of the exact problem everyone on tour had to deal with from time to time - pulling out due to pain - made him re-evaluate his opinions. So yes, it’s safe to say Roger knows all about the ache, boredom, restlessness and desire to get back on court. He knows about every unpleasant effect of an injury.

But still, this is not it.

Roger knows about _suffering_.

 

He saw it in front of him. He tasted it. He lived with it. He heard it. He couldn’t do anything about it.

 

He knows about suffering, because Rafa goes through it almost every day.

 

 

*

 

 

It’s quite late when Rafa arrives back into their hotel suite but he is still beaming with happiness. He looks like sunshine - his mouth stretched wide, cheeks dimpled and teeth shining brightly. He tosses his bags into one corner of the room and goes straight to the sofa where he unceremoniously flops down and sprawls over the length of it, long legs going over the elbow rest.

“Ahhhh, this was a good match.” he has one arm thrown over his eyes, the blissful look still not leaving his face.

Roger stands in the doorway, watching with a fond smile on his face. A second later he frowns, his hands going to his hips in feigned annoyance.

“That’s it? You go straight to the sofa to have a lie down? And here I was, cheering you on. But you know what, I don’t know why I expected anything else from the world number one.” he slowly makes his way to the Spaniard, who is now peering up at him from under his arm, smile turning mischievous.

“You cheered for me, Rogelio? What if I end up beating you in the final?”

“You wish, you bastard. Come here” he grabs Rafa’s wrist and pulls it away from his face to kiss him gently “You played amazing.”

Rafa blushes delicately and he pushes at Roger’s chest in order to sit up properly. As soon as he is upright he grabs Roger’s shirt and finds his mouth again. It’s a little bit rough, just edgy enough that it indicates the traces of the leftover adrenaline still coursing through Rafa’s veins. He gasps into Roger’s mouth wetly and when he pulls away it’s only for a couple of inches.

“How is the knee?” Roger inquires gently, his fingertips grazing the top of the mentioned body part carefully.

Rafa glances away, then back at Roger’s face. He half-heartedly shrugs, knowing that what Roger wants to hear is something he won’t possibly ever be able to say. Still, he sighs deeply and smiles a little, one hand coming up to cup Roger’s face, his thumb rubbing across the stubble there.

“Is okay, no? Stop worrying. If I feel like I can’t play, I tell you.”

Roger swallows, trying to reign in his thoughts, trying to remember every previous conversation they had throughout the years. It’s not easier now. It never gets easier.

He tries for a grin, knowing that if he goes any further, if he pushes the issue, Rafa would close off and that’s the last thing he wants right now. Right now, Rafa is genuinely happy and he cherishes every one of these moments like they might be the last one. The thought of it alone makes him tremble.

“Yeah, course. I know that.”

Rafa looks content, still, eyes hooded and smiling slightly.

“You really watched?”

Roger stays silent for a moment, taking the other man in. He combs his fingers through Rafa’s hair, tugging on it lightly. He traces his fingertips down along the silky strands until his palm ends up resting at the dip of Rafa’s tanned neck, electing a content hum from the Spaniard as he closes his eyes.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, you know that. You were amazing out there. I’m so proud of you, baby.” and he means it. He kisses Rafa firmly, if that only would make him believe it, too. This thing with the reassurance, Roger learned it a long time ago. Still, Rafa casts his eyes down, shy, beautiful. He leans forward to rest his cheek against Roger’s neck, breathing heavily as his fingers catch and entwine with Roger’s in his lap, squeezing them tightly for a moment. A small smile takes over Roger’s face at the gesture and he knows this is what home feels like.

 

He would do anything to protect this feeling.

 

And if he can’t have this for the rest of his life, Roger thinks vehemently, he would rather not have anything at all.  

 

 

*

 

 

There are days when it’s better.

There are days when Rafa doesn’t have to take that many pain killers. There are days when he doesn’t wake up with his nose scrunched, frowning in agony. There are days when he isn’t limping by the end of it.

 

But these days don’t occur often.

Roger, in an awful, twisted way, is used it. Year after year, he is there. He is there to hold Rafa when he drops to the floor just from taking a wrong step. He is there when the white tiles echo Rafa’s frustrated sobs in the shower after a series of bad days, failed practices, playing through agony. He is there when Rafa wakes up in the middle of the night whimpering because of the constant ache in his legs, painkillers fading. He is there, watching the man he loves biting his lip, clenching his fists, getting through every day determined. Determined to live a happy, normal life.

Talking about it is not something they often do.

Rafa doesn’t like to be reminded of his body failing him, just as he doesn’t want to think about aging - about falling apart. He holds himself together with a tremendous effort every single day and acknowledging this is not something he is ever keen on doing. He humours Roger from time to time though, simply out of affection. Rafa won’t ever deny him the right to worry, to be concerned or even scared at times, but he also draws a line and if Roger doesn’t stay within it he gets just a little bit more stiff, little bit distant, sometimes even for days. He is never angry or rude about it - no, not particularly (although Roger had arguments with Rafa on more than one occasion when it ended with both of them shouting and throwing things), more often than not it’s the exact opposite. He has a tendency to get very polite, avoiding eye contact and staying out of Roger’s way: he is so very Rafa about showing his dislike of the topic. Although this had been more of a problem back in the days, years prior, when Rafa was younger, more explosive and free spirited, a force that didn’t want to be contained.

 

And just like a caged bird, his Rafa, couldn’t accept being limited by his own body.

 

 

*

 

 

Seeing Rafa on the bench with a physio scrunched down in front of him makes Roger freeze immediately. Recognising the expression on Rafa’s face - the one Roger is so used to seeing when the younger man deflects his worries - he instantly knows something is not right. He hears Rafa’s nonchalant explanation, he sees the forced smile on his lips - it’s all too familiar.

When Rafa takes the pain killers with practiced ease, Roger doesn’t flinch.

When moments later, the pure agony on his face emerges from the massage given, Roger stands up from the armchair.

Severin is quite awake now as well and he carefully watches Roger, but doesn’t approach him, which is something Roger is very grateful for. He taps his leg and bites his fist as he watches Rafa going back out on court, showing signs of obvious discomfort, of pain. Roger doesn’t sit back down, and when Rafa retires - red cheeked, frustrated and _limping_ \- his hands fly to his hair, grabbing there as he lets out a dry half-sob in utter frustration and helplessness. He presses his fists into his eyes and takes a few deep breaths to collect himself, to give himself time to think. Severin still hasn’t said a word, but he is now half out of his seat, a hand awkwardly stretched out on his leg, as if wanting to reach out to Roger but thinking better of it.

“I need to get to him”

“Roger…” his coach starts but Roger doesn’t let him finish the sentence. He throws a glance toward the door as he starts pacing around the living area, feeling half mad with worry.

“Listen, you know the deal, right? He can’t be alone right now; I need to be there for him. I don’t care what we have to do, okay? Phone the fucking tour manager, I don’t care! Just get me down to him.”

“Roger, hey! Calm down for a minute, okay? We will figure it out, just calm down. This won’t help him. I call Tony and he will deal with this.” Severin’s voice is firm and steady, the exact opposite of how Roger feels. At his coach’s words though, Roger’s posture drops a little, the fight leaving him as he closes his eyes tiredly.

“Yeah, okay. Thank you.”

He sinks back down into the armchair with a deep sigh, burying his face into his hands as he tries to regulate his breathing. He distantly hears the other man talking on the phone a few feet away, speaking rapidly. Roger imagines him clenching and unclenching his fist as his eyes cast around the room, something the other Swiss tends to do in situations like this. When he hears Severin hanging up the phone, Roger looks up with his hands still in front of his mouth, throwing a questioning look at his coach. Severin lets out a huff of breath through his nose loudly.

“Okay. Tony will have it arranged in a few minutes. There will be a car ready outside. Just go from around the back, it will be clear. I guess you plan to come back together, but if anything comes up Benito and Carlos will back you up. Tony will talk to them, so they know you are coming.”

Roger nods along. He frowns before asking.

“Does Rafa know?” it’s a stupid question, a pointless one. Severin looks at him with a strange, sad expression and shakes his head.

“I don’t think so, Rog.”

“Yeah, right.” he feels out of it, and he runs his hands down his face one more time before standing up.

Severin steps closer and lightly grabs his elbow, stopping him.

“Rog, listen to me. I won’t pretend to know how you feel right now but just try and not lose your head out there, alright? We don’t want anyone to start asking questions now. Please be careful.”

Roger can only nod, feeling numb. After pulling a hoodie over his head he goes straight to the door without looking back.

 

He is anxious to get to Rafa as soon as possible but he dreads what will greet him.

 

He doesn’t like to recall past experiences.

 

 

*

 

 

The breeze is gentle and warm as it blows through the open windows, twisting the curtains and making the material look like it’s dancing. Rafa is sitting outside on the balcony where he has been for over an hour now. The sky is grey but traces of sunlight still illuminate the air, giving it a soft golden glow.

Roger moves soundly around the kitchen, just finishing with the dinner he made for them. Rafa is in one of his moods today. He has given him the space he needs - Roger knows how to handle him by now. Still, he can’t help getting just a slightly bit worried, even though he knows this is normal. Normal for them, at least.

 

Nobody knows about their normal.

 

Ever since the London Finals the atmosphere has been delicate again. It’s not especially worse than it usually is, but it’s more heavy, more unpredictable like it hasn’t been for a few months now. Ever since Rafa’s injury… Roger sighs as he puts the used dishes into the sink and looks up again to glance outside. Rafa has his back to him and is strikingly still, staring at the sea motionlessly, only his hair blowing a little in the wind. There must have been a time, years ago, when Roger couldn’t have imagined his boy - his restless, wonderful boy with full of energy - being this startlingly without movement, be it a tap of the leg, twitching of the fingers.

 

Those times were long behind them.

 

Roger slowly walks outside, approaching the other man carefully. Once out in the balcony, he stands behind Rafa’s chair, leaning down to press a kiss to his temple where his hair curls gently in the wind.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

Rafa jumps a little in surprise but then hums and looks up with a small, guilty smile.

“I’m sorry, Rogi. I don’t know how much time since I have been sitting here. Is not that late, no?” he frowns, looking around as if to judge it from his surroundings alone.

Roger chuckles a little and shakes his head.

“It’s okay, baby. I only came out to tell you I finished making dinner, that’s all. You hungry yet?” he enquiries, knowing Rafa’s tendency to eat late at night, as most Spaniards do. Catching Roger off guard, Rafa turns suddenly in his chair, facing him.

“You finished?” he asks eagerly, eyebrow raised. “I am so hungry I can’t think properly for some time now, no? I feel like I can eat the whole kitchen.”

Roger ignores his impulse to ask what Rafa had been thinking about. It’s not the time. He kisses those pouting lips quickly instead, leaning back in to do it again and again - until Rafa lets out a small whimper as his eyes flutter close, cheeks flushed. One of his hand reaches out to grab at Roger’s neck, twisting his fingers into his hair. The gesture makes something alight in Roger, and he kisses him with more force, his hand coming up to rest against Rafa’s jaw, opening his mouth wider. When they pull away from each other Rafa’s face is slightly crimson, mouth opening on soft pants - gorgeously shining and bitten - and his eyes are as dark as moonless sky above the sea.

He is the most beautiful thing Roger has ever seen.

“Come on. Let’s eat dinner and then we can watch that movie you were so excited about the other day.” he offers graciously, taking Rafa’s hand in his to help him stand up. It was a stupid rom-com Rafa heard about - probably from one of his fellow Spaniards - and has been nagging Roger ever since then.

Rafa blinks at him, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

“We can? I thought I have to tie you down to do it. You finally find a way to watch TV without paying real attention, Rogelio?” he raises to stand, his knuckles white with the force of his grip around Roger’s hand.

Roger rolls his eyes, grabbing Rafa’s elbow to steady him.

“Very funny. If you continue with the sarcasm, I will put on animal documentaries again and see how you like that.”

The younger man shrugs as he takes a step towards the door, biting hard into his lip for a moment, grip tightening.

“If you want, okay, but then no sex for a week. Choose wisely Roger.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Rafa throws a glance at him and raises his eyebrow again. Roger sighs dramatically and slowly lets Rafa go, once he is sure he wouldn’t fall over and hurt himself.

“Fine, at least it’s not the Titanic again.”

 

 

*

 

 

Sometimes it’s tough.

Sometimes, and Roger hates to admit it - but sometimes, it’s so tough he feels like it’s crushing him from all sides, it feels suffocating.

 

On bad days, when Rafa wakes up in tears from the pain, or when he is so irritated and hurt that he either snaps at Roger for no reason - slamming doors and shouting in high pitched Spanish - or stays mostly silent for hours; it’s hard. But even though that leaving Rafa would have been the easier choice to make all those years ago (when he found out just how deep and complicated this issue was, how it shaped Rafa’s everyday life), the selfish but logical choice, to let someone else deal with it - he doesn’t ever regret his decision to stick around. Roger feels nothing but amazement and pride. He feels a love so heavy that it still weighs out every bad day, every argument they had, every sleepless night spent in tears.

His love for Rafa will never be a thing he regrets.

 

 

*

 

 

By the time the car finally pulls up in the parking lot next to the court, Roger’s blood sings with nerves, his legs restless in their movement. He thanks the driver and tells him that he will be back shortly. Well, he hopes it won’t take long at least. The only thing he wants is to find Rafa and get them back to their suite in the quickest way possible.

He knows these arenas like the back of his hand, and so he navigates through the corridors, carefully avoiding anyone who might look at him strangely for his presence here. When he spots Moya waiting for him in front of the locker room he fastens his hoodie, casting a few glances around and he feels a flood of relief when he sees that just as Severin said, Tony made sure nobody was in the corridor who could cause them any trouble.

He clasps hands with Carlos, who nods at him with his expression completely unreadable, so very unlike from the Spaniard.

“Come on, let’s get inside.” he holds the door open for Roger who hastily steps over the threshold. He looks at Carlos when he walks past him, leading them to the lockers Rafa always uses. Roger’s heart speeds up - he hates feeling so uncertain, having no idea what will greet him but he knows it won’t be pretty. For the second time in the night, there is a hand on his elbow, stopping him.

“He doesn’t talk to us. He got injection already but it’s working only more or less. He will have an MRI tomorrow.” Roger looks down at the carpeted floor and nods. Okay. Rafa isn’t shouting, that’s a good enough clue for him on how to handle the situation.

“It wouldn’t be the first time” he mutters, referring to the failing painkiller and Carlos seems to understand this.

“Yes, he needs something stronger. For now, it’s good to prevent further damage.” Roger laughs humourlessly at this. Yeah, pain helps him to watch out for his leg, at least. Positives. He pats the other man’s shoulder quickly before stepping around him.

“Okay. Thanks.”

When he reaches the row of lockers Rafa and his team preoccupy, the first thing he notices is the thick silence. There is always a slight buzz surrounding the Spaniards, like electricity crackling in the air. Now, with Maymo and Benito standing on the two sides of the bench, looking resigned with their arms crossed, it couldn’t have been a sharper contrast. Disappointment hangs heavily in the air.

Rafa sits alone a few feet away. He has his head bowed, sweaty curls falling to his face and masking his expression. When Roger approaches quietly, the other two men look up in surprise and Roger nods at them briefly before inclining his head to the side, hoping they will get the message. Benito and Maymo exchange a look and pat him on the back as they leave the scene. When they are out of sight, Roger takes a deep breath and steps closer to his boy, who still hasn’t showed any sign of noticing him there. His feet carry him towards Rafa and when he reaches the Spaniard he instantly goes down on his knees in front of him, touching his hands gently. Rafa’s hands are cold with sweat, his fingers still taped.

“Hey, sweetheart. It’s just me.” Rafa finally looks up, his expression unsurprisingly blank. He blinks at Roger rapidly a few times, hands reaching out to grasp at Roger’s own resting on Rafa’s thighs. He looks like he has just woken up.

“Roger…” his voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. His eyes are the saddest thing Roger has ever seen.

“It’s me baby, I’m here. I’m here.” Rafa lets out a choked sob and Roger doesn’t even think as he stands up and repositions himself down on the bench, gathering Rafa in his arms tightly. The younger man’s whole body shakes with the sheer force of his sobs, and Roger feels his eyes burning as he holds Rafa against his chest, with one hand in his messy hair and the other on his back. He shuts his eyes tightly in order to avoid breaking down as well, but the tears still find a way from under his closed eyelids.

“I’m sorry, I’m here. I will never leave you, you know that. I’m here, Raf.” he repeats over and over again and there is no way he can stop weeping now. He tightens his hold around Rafa, who lets out small, half choked whimpers now, fists clenching around Roger’s hoodie. He presses his face into the soft, sweaty strands on top of Rafa’s head, fingertips biting into his skull as he holds him. He lifts his eyes towards the ceiling in utter helplessness, eyelashes glistening with moisture.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

 

 

*

 

 

Many years ago, in the beginning of their relationship, on a warm summer night by the sea - always by the sea, it became just as much of a home to Roger as Rafa did - was the first time they had a conversation about it. They lay in the sand with Rafa’s head resting on his chest, thick curls flying everywhere, making Roger sneeze on more than one occasion.

He can’t recall now where they were exactly or when was it, but he remembers other things clearly as daylight: his fingers combing through Rafa’s silky hair, their legs sticking together with the heat, the rough texture of the ground beneath his back.

Rafa had been strangely quiet for some time and Roger remembers pressing a kiss to his forehead, asking what was on his mind. He remembers Rafa’s hesitation, how carefully he chose his words, whispering them into Roger’s skin.

“Sometimes… sometimes I scared, Rogi. I feel hollow, no? Like I going to fall apart from the inside. Sometimes… is different to describe. But it feels not right. Not always, no? But sometimes… it makes me scared.” he admits in a low voice and when Roger shifts to look at him properly, Rafa sits up, casting his eyes down, avoiding eye contact.

“Hey, Raf, it’s okay. You can tell me anything, you know that right? Is it because of your injuries? he asks, genuinely wanting to know. The younger man tenses at the word but finally looks back at Roger. In that moment he seems so much older than the sweet, young boy he is and Roger hasn’t heard him speaking that seriously before.

“There is pain, always. I no longer know what is like without pain, Rogi. I want to be good tennis player, no? I want a lot of things. I want to be happy, too. And I am happy, no? With you, I feel happy, always. But I always feel the pain too, no? Sometimes I just want to not feel it, I think.” he looks down again, twisting his fingers in a nervous habit.

Roger remembers feeling caught off guard by the rawness and honesty of Rafa’s words. They left him wide open, made him feel something he wasn’t sure at the time what it was exactly. He only knew one thing: he never wanted to see that look on Rafa’s face again. He decided to make sure Rafa will never have to be that sad again.

 

In a way, he is grateful he had no idea just how wrong he was back then.

 

 

*

 

 

After they get back to their suite ( _after_ both of them stopped crying and packing Rafa’s things, _after_ Rafa snapping at Carlos for offering to take his bag from him - Rafa frantically apologising right away, his voice trembling with restraint, _after_ the struggle that was going up even a few stairs) they don’t speak. Roger undresses and then goes over to do the same for Rafa, gently peeling his shirt and shorts off - Rafa letting him do it without so much as a sound is only unusual but not worrying - and then kissing him gently, moving his lips to graze over his cheekbones, his neck. Rafa melts under him, letting out small sounds of approval and Roger is just as determined to make him feel good as he always is.

He is mindful of Rafa’s right thigh, caressing the strong muscle while whispering praises into his ear which elect gorgeous sounds of the younger man, making his body arch beautifully, as wild and free in this as he always aches to be. When Rafa cries it’s both out of pleasure and heart break, as it sometimes is, and Roger is there to kiss the tears away. He will always be.

 

After, he lies awake while Rafa sleeps fitfully, he thinks about how different everything could be if Rafa didn’t have a body that goes against him and tries to destroy his spirit either. He thinks about a life, where Rafa is healthy and happy and isn’t afraid to stand up after sitting for half an hour. He looks down when Rafa lets out a small sound of discomfort, shifting around to take the pressure off of his injured thigh. He turns around but doesn’t wake up, and _this_ , this is something Roger learned to be thankful for.

He presses a soft kiss to the back of Rafa’s neck and tries very hard to not think about the MRI, his match or anything else that will take place tomorrow. He sighs heavily and closes his eyes.

 

They will get through this, as they always do. They got each other for good, after all.

 

 

 


End file.
